Texas Quail: The Northern Bobwhite

Driving over the Llano Estacado this morning the sky is heavy with storm clouds, lighting making landfall to the north.  The approaching grey carries with it a sense of wonder and concomitant danger and as I watch the precipitation fall over the distant plains, the cliffs of the Caprock Escarpment approaching rapidly, the pressures of my day begin to find themselves lost in the serenity of West Texas. It is a land passed over by many, labeled as a territory of desolation and left for the vultures, the scavengers. But beyond the subtle and overwhelming beauty of this place I have come to know, in the hills filled with silver bluestem, mesquite and sunflowers, a small and resilient bird makes it home. It is a species that like so many other upland birds has a siren song all to its own, and to Texans and the hunters that reside here, the call is irresistible. It is the nocturne of a gamebird, the melody of a survivor, it is the serenade of the northern bobwhite quail.

Before settling into my new home my upland pursuits had taken me far and wide, chasing chukar and grouse, pheasants and turkeys, but overlooked for so many years were one of the most agile, explosive, and dynamic birds of them all, the quail. The northern bobwhite, with streaks of white and orange paint dressing their heads, thrive all the way from New England to Texas. They look like mobile grenades as they forage in and about the shrubs and bunchgrasses, stout and rotund on first appearance. But when a covey decides to flush they thrust out like tiny missiles accelerating across the evening horizon, almost as if Houston had just given mission control the go to launch; their jettison is spectacular.

From a distance they appear almost as a muted brown but even a moment’s further inspection reveals shades of chestnut, maroon, mahogany, and slate, all splashed about their wings and bodies. As they lift into the sky a brief interlude of crisscrossing is followed by flights low and hard, straight and narrow. Their feet, concealed in the rolling dust, harken back to a prehistoric era when only the most tenacious of species emerged from Earth’s evolution. Their long claws and scaled feet truly reflect and are the embodiment of a life on the surface. In the spring, when these birds shed their clandestine image and begin calling, they can be heard well into the day, a quick “bob-white” ringing out from the grasses. Who knew so much could come from such a modest package?

And while quail far and wide have claim to their own homes, the forests of northern Florida, the agricultural lands of the Mid-West, Texan quail thrive where many see a landscape devoid of life. But to look closer at the rangeland we have, to dig deeper into its ostensible mirage, those same people might just find something they never expected. Amongst the native seeds produced by this land and eaten by quail the diversity, color, size, and shape are something to marvel at. There are varieties with names such as western ragweed, croton, partridge pea, Illinois bundleflower, black-eyed susan, Maximilan sunflower, and broom snakeweed; all staples of a quail’s diet out here in no-man’s land. They are a survivalist in a sea of brown, a native of West Texas, where all the amenities necessary for life are provided by what is proudly known as the Southern Rolling Plains.

But more than the birds themselves it is the culture that draws you in. Texans are obsessed with their bobwhites and the money and resources put into their conservation and protection is a testament to that fact. From pointing dogs to bumper stickers, local chapters to lone hunters, the atmosphere is thick with quail. When you come here you instantaneously feel the enthusiasm, the energy, the excitement. Men and women, young and old, speak of quail almost as if they were long lost relatives, a relationship that has been built over generations and which is renewed each fall. The folklore has had a most infectious impact on me.

To this end Farley and I, now with enough time in this state to claim residency, have long awaited our chance to push out into the grasslands and try out luck, to wade through the morning shrubs, the morning dew soaking our legs. I have even had the pleasure of working my dog on a few private ranches this past winter and to see the his tail once again go straight and stiff, wagging with determined conviction, was more than this hunter’s heart could desire. He once again had the scent, the smell that is perhaps the only fragrance that can immediately take his mind off of the jacks zigzagging his path and focus him back onto a singular task.

I didn't know what to expect when I arrived here but finding a love for quail was certainly unexpected. Finding a love for West Texas was as well. Public lands are scarce in this part of the country, making hunting that much more difficult but I have never been one to shy away from a visit with a landowner. More often than not you meet a rancher who has stories to tell, quail hunts to reminisce about, and a warm handshake if you are willing to spend the time. And in the end, there is really no way to better learn about a species you want to hunt or a culture you wish to know than to get it straight from the horse’s mouth. With quail loved by so many, there are stories and anecdotes to keep you smiling for days. This fall, I’m ready to make a few of my own.

West Texas:

Early season quail nest:

The northern bobwhite:

The ubiquitous Texas windmill...and Farley:

One Hunter's Struggle to Adapt to City Life

I know that I have not written in a while but tonight my pen needs paper. I have found that the hunting adventures and wilderness trips that were slowly becoming a mainstay of my life have now become distant memories barely visible through a foggy landscape. It’s not that I am not enjoying the years, this one has especially been good to me, but more and more I feel like something is missing, like something has taken a part of my soul and hidden it in a far off land. I feel like I am searching for that soul, searching for freedom, searching for a life away from the chaos, away from the pavement and steel that define so many lives. I'm searching for the hunt.

In the past two years I have left Oregon, moved back to New England, my original home, moved out to Minnesota and now settled down in West Texas. This is the eleventh state I have lived in in my short 30 years and I am now explicitly conscious of my invariably changing surroundings. I feel I am constantly searching for something new and virgin and as I age I believe more and more that I know what I want out of life but struggle increasingly to find it. Perhaps that’s the curse, the more you know, the more you struggle.

I want to get lost in the desert chasing bighorn sheep. I want to disappear in Idaho’s forest where the only sounds are the echoes of ghosts past letting me know the path is unknown. I want to watch my dog stretch his little dog legs on a western ranch and flush up birds in the setting sun. I want to learn to ride a horse, one that in the future may help me pack out my first bull elk. I want to shoot my first deer, man, I want to shoot my first deer. I want to stretch out my arms and not feel the weight of civilization pressing back down on me. Is that possible? Am I asking too much?

As a hunter you find yourself in landscapes near and distant, in lands aphotic and glistening, in mornings stunning and crisp. There are evenings where your legs feel so tired you smile as you turn and remember the miles traveled. As I walked by a pine tree dotting a city street today the look, smell, and feel all immediately transported me to a far off land where all was quiet; where the sounds of ambulances, car radios, overhead planes, and cell phones disappeared as if they never existed, as if the world had conspired to make that one moment all that was good and simple.

We travel into the woods seeking something unique, something personal. I feel more and more that I cannot explain that to anyone; that the call of the wilderness is dying in the hearts of many and it reminds me of a story from a bear hunt James and I partook in some years back…

As we sat, resting in the shade of such a fine pine tree, a songbird swooped in and began to whistle a simple tune. In return James whistled back, receiving the response we so desired, and the dance, or song, went on for several minutes.  It was a moment in the woods so insignificant as to be meaningless to millions of people on this planet but not to an outdoorsmen, not to a hunter. Only those who have an intimate association with the wilderness, only those with a rare glimpse into the soul of our forests could have such fun with a small bird in the midst of our calm afternoon, black bears wandering about.

I recently finished a book about the first western explorers to the vast southern Rolling Plains and their pioneering spirit harkened back to the days of James Fenimore Cooper’s young adventurer, Natty Bumppo. Those men and woman, knowing the risks, knowing that what was in front of them was in fact, the unknown, they still took their chances, knowing in fact, that adventures and a new way of life were ahead of them. What I wouldn’t give for such an adventure.

I want to get lost in the desert, in the forests. I want to get lost in the rolling plains. I want to get lost on Earth. I want to throw on my leather pack, sling my rifle over my shoulder and head out the door in search of an animal deep in the wilderness. Is there anything else worth searching for? Life and a connection with the world? Is there anything so worthwhile as to sustain yourself in a way that dates back to the dawn of man? I don’t believe I could possibly come up with a better way to spend my fall days than out hidden in the trees or lost amongst a sea of sagebrush. I can smell it now.

The little dog taking in a West Texas sunset.

Bloodied Hands: Inside the Deer

I cleaned my first deer last night under a veil of darkness, my movements lit only by my dimming headlight and a full moon. It was almost surreal to think back to it this morning. It was a moment I had waited many years for, to put my hands on such a large animal and work with it so intimately. To feel all that gives life and realize that it now displays death. I don’t know how to describe it, I really didn’t know what to do, but throughout the night I remember a calmness, surprise even, with how naturally the scene unfolded. I found myself covered in blood, my pants heavily stained and the rawness of it all was utterly pleasing. Not pleasing because death was before me, but pleasing because I had never felt so connected to something outside myself. With the moon casting a white light upon me, I stood outside, the wind howling before the coming storm, and I refrained from thought, immersing myself in the moment.

I had watched many others complete the process but had never partaken in it personally. I was always an hour too late or a town too far away. I had wanted so badly to experience this moment in Oregon, pushing hard and praying that I may have but one chance to feel the warmth of an animal in the cold of the state’s forests. But it was not meant to be and on this night, that moment found me.

I remember most the beauty of the animal, youthful and healthy. A coat that said she had prepared for and was thoroughly ready for winter. I remember the warmth she radiated, both freshly on the ground and hours later. As I removed the hide I remember feeling the blood dry on my arms, dark, cracked and heavy burgundy in color. I gazed over to see other vibrant shades of red, blood still new to the night’s air. I remember working every angle to quickly try and cool her down, to expose the meat and admire its quality. My knife movements were clumsy, searching for direction, but I was soon finished and before me stood a picture of death and unapologetic beauty.

John Muir had once spent over a week living in a graveyard in Savannah. He had chosen that spot to avoid roaming thieves and thought there was no better place to remain hidden than the site of which so many were afraid. But this cemetery was overgrown, neglected by man and taken over once again by Mother Nature, her arms reaching into every crevice. And amongst the headstones that symbolized death, John Muir found a wealth of life. From the birds to the plants, all that was once lugubrious now became enchanted with life. He found there was no need to be afraid for here, life and death were to be celebrated together.

While his experience only bares a small resemblance to mine, I remember that I have never felt the raw nature of life and death as much as I did last night. I was not afraid of the unknown. Alone in the darkness, the wind and moonlight were my companions. I was not afraid of what so many in this new world are so disconnected from. Alone I found myself tranquil, moved. I will never forget it.

 

Stir Crazy

I feel like I am withering away here waiting for fall. It’s all I think about; it’s all the dog talks about. Bark, bark, ruff, ruff, when the hell can we go bird hunting? And after being sidelined once again this May due to budgetary constraints I was unable to participate in a Minnesota turkey hunt, which as I walked through the woods this past month made it all the more disappointing; the prevalence of sign just about made me throw all caution to the wind. But alas, the joy of shooting another turkey this year would have quickly been soured when I was forced back down to eating rice and black pepper for dinner. Or worse yet, a can of tuna and Saltine crackers which may sound okay but after a few days well, not so much. What this really adds up to is that my one opportunity to get out and hunt this spring has come and gone with no fanfare whatsoever.

At this time of year fishing does provide some measure of relief. While it does not hold the inherent physical challenge and rush of hunting big game or upland birds it does provide a level of excitement that can keep even the most weathered hunter appeased. But once again I find myself in tough times. I am surrounded by water, the land of 10,000 lakes as this place is known, but there’s not a good fly fishing river within a hundred miles. How I long for the Eagle Cap Wilderness back in Oregon, snowy mountain tops melting and pouring their cold water down into a web of rivers. Just thinking about it almost makes me want to cry. I have never claimed to be a skilled fly fisherman but with each spring I was beginning to improve my odds. Now it seems that momentum will be stopped dead, at least for now.

There is lake fishing and to that fact there can be no doubt. Men and women across Minnesota are gearing up and heading to the lakes, thrilled with the prospect of pulling in some massive walleye or muskie, a northern pike or sturgeon. It’s all everyone talks about and lakes that were once serene oases from the calamity of modern life are now dotted with boats. Homes that line the lake shores which just this past winter were nothing more than another landscape feature are now filled with vacationing families every weekend. As I turn down a once trusty walking trail I am confronted with civilization and for that, I can only hang my head. It’s not that I shun people or don’t enjoy a good barbeque as much as the next person but often times you just want to get away from it all, eschew the noise that interferes with the wilderness. Why can I not seem to find that around here without being out in the middle of some bog, water and mud seeping into my boots?

Anyhow, sitting on a lake is not what I aspire to do when I think of a good time; I need to be moving, physically, with purpose. And not to mention I have none of the gear which would be required to complete such a task, most notably a boat. So I find myself once again waiting for fall. I haven’t even been out to shoot my gun in months now, the availability of land to just go cycle through a box of shells is limited at best and I have little doubt I would have the police tapping on my shoulder in no time.

The worst part of it all is that I have new gear and new cameras to get out and utilize this fall but right now they might as well be Christmas tree ornaments, brought out when the time calls for them but currently boxed up in the attic. The want for these next few months to just fly by is killing me. But then again, I hear all the old timers often saying how they just want more time, want a few months back here or there. Maybe I should just shut up, stop whining and enjoy the summer. Maybe I should just be patient. But I have to believe I’m not alone, that I’m not the only one out there who is already waiting for the leaves to begin falling off the trees. Or, maybe everyone is out fishing. Dammit, I need a new hobby.

A Genuine Filson: The Search is Over

In the world of “Made in China” where cheap goods lend themselves to our meager budgets, we often find ourselves buying up gear at a feverish pace. Each year we travel off to our favorite outdoor stores to gaze across the racks of endless goods. They are designed and made to attract comers of all sorts; those with a genuine interest in gathering up new gear and others who simply think that they cannot survive the coming seasons without the latest in creative camo. And I, like many others, have found it necessary to buy gear that may have been of questionable quality in times of monetary austerity. But more and more I have begun to realize that even in those times of financial hardship the notion that you “get what you pay for” never fails to ring true. It is precisely this reason that I have made it my mission as of late to not let me fiscal woes interfere with a lifetime of gear; not to let my immediate circumstances lead me into a cyclical pattern of accoutrement and accessory buying. As a result of my recent travels, from coast to coast, I have made this practice my mantra.

My most recent purchase saw its roots during my first few months in Oregon; a place and culture defined by its rugged nature and a region in which the cloths of both hunters and ranchers often personify that image. The hard work of raising cattle across the undulating sagebrush and the arduous task of finding blue grouse along the ridges of the Wallowas requires the gear to match. For those tasks, for that lifestyle, men and women find themselves in possession of garments that continue to stand up to the weather and abuse.

I remember the first time I saw a Filson jacket. James had just come down from his ranch and as he stepped out of his tattered Jeep I saw a jacket that mirrored the wear and tear. It looked strong, almost impenetrable, impervious to whatever the world could throw at it. I looked over it and admired what I clearly saw as a jacket for a lifetime. The creases and crevices that lined its sleeves and chest were rigged yet soft, sharp yet smooth. And then, several weeks later I would run into another friend who himself was wearing a jacket marked with “Filson”, the discolored and worn brown buttons showing its age. I was immediately attracted to both, no doubt realizing that these jackets were different, unique in some indefinable way.

When I began browsing Filson catalogs I was astonished at the variety and enthralled by the makers. I found wool jackets I wanted to own, slicks and pants I couldn’t live without and hunting gear I relished. However, abover all, there was one item in particular that promptly grabbed my attention. An item that I knew I had to have, that I knew would continue me on my hunting journey. The item, the piece of gear I pined over was their “Pro Guide Strap Vest”. It was the upland bird vest I had dreamed about as the one that would carry me forth into my years of bird hunting across the west. It was the one I knew would find itself soiled with the mud and rain of the Dakota grasslands and the Idaho shrub-steppe; the vest that would drape itself over my shoulders as I climbed above the Oregon heavens in search of chukar and as I pushed along Montana's stream banks in search of quail. It would follow me into the Minnesota tree thickets in pursuit of ruffed grouse and cling to me as I climbed Nevada’s rocky hilltops in my quest for partridge. It would be the vest that took me and the dog into our formative hunting years and as luck would have it, there are to be no more “coulds or woulds”, for there is now no more thinking on the matter. There is no more wishing and hoping and dreaming. This past week, throwing prudence aside, I used a chunk of my tax returns to purchase the vest and made the dream, a reality.

The vest is now securely in my house and sits in the corner after having gone for its first test run today. It’s still new, rigged from its construction. It needs time to mold itself, wear itself in and I adamantly plan on helping it along the way. It’s a heavy material, ready for all the world can throw at it. But although I am happy to finally have this vest in my possession, as it sits here under the dim ceiling light I reflect on the first bird vest that was ever given to me. It was a gift from my mother and it served its purpose with my utmost gratitude. It followed me through two and a half bird seasons, the bag filled with birds large and small, blood flecks finding themselves littered across the pockets. From here I can see the Oregon dirt smeared across the back reminding me of the days sitting high up above Keating Valley looking out towards the Eagle Caps. I would often run the sagebrush with the dog for much of the afternoon but at some point, wanting to look back and gaze upon the most beautiful place I have ever known, I would sit down and rest in silence. The days when that stillness was accompanied by the heft of birds in my bag was all the better. It was a great vest for a great time.

But now I move on to a new era, a new phase in my upland bird hunting life. Times that will see my dog enter middle age and one where I will try my best to explore as much country as possible. With this new vest I mark the beginning of a new chapter, one where the gear I purchase will be a reflection of the dedication and respect I have for the wilderness and my desire to explore it. What I have made here is not merely a purchase, it was an investment. As James said:

“If you need justification, try this: over the lifetime of the vest, how many birds and hours of enjoyment (will you get back) per dollar? It should come at a cheap price.”

A cheap price indeed; I cannot wait for fall.

A Minnesota Staple: Ice Fishing

We streak across the snowy surface of Elm Island Lake, the humming of the snowmobile’s engine lulling me into a state of repose as I watch the landscape pass by. Behind us, a young boy holds on and smiles with the credulous delight we faintly remember but warmly embrace. He is tethered on to our machine with some climbing rope and a sled; he holds on, trying to maintain his course along our freshly blazed trail. Today we are headed out for my first ice fishing trip, out onto this still frozen lake in search of panfish and while I know not what to expect I look forward to something that is inherently Minnesotan. I have a few native fishermen to guide me and as such I trust this trip will be both amusing and a learning experience.

With the temperature hovering just above thirty and a cool wind streaming out of the west you would think this day better suited for mid-March than late April. “The winter cannot go on this way”, they repeatedly tell me but as anomalies go in my life, this one takes the cake. The incessant onslaught of winter storms and cold weather continue to turn me against a previously loved season and I dream of spring every chance I get. But alas, we are stuck, almost literally in my driveway yesterday, stuck in its grasp and the most we can do is make the best of it.

A few weeks ago a friend from work finally convinced me to go out and get my annual fishing license. It was not that I was hesitant because I didn’t care to fish but rather because money is tighter than ever. And so I did, heeding his words that the fish I would catch and the bounty I could bring home would pay for the license in no time. And as a matter of fact an annual pass for a non-resident was a measly $46, how can one argue with that? So I packed up my cameras, said goodbye to the dog and headed out the door, completely unaware of what was to come.

With the warming sun combating the cool breeze I just tried to take in my first ride on a snowmobile; a machine with incredible power and surprising mobility. We had already dove off hillsides that would have sent a quad tumbling and skimmed across ice and slush that at times had me questioning the safety of this endeavor, a thawed out river working its way towards us less than 200 yards away. But the trip was most enjoyable and after a few short-cuts and some fresh snow we arrived at our destination.

Initially, I didn’t know what to expect. As we began to look for holes drilled by others I quickly realized this was not a sit and wait game. Perhaps in the depths of winter when winter breezes bring the wind chill to an oppressive -20 a small shelter and some heating source would seem prudent but here, in the midst of a warm April afternoon, holes are abound and jumping around is the name of the game. Even so, my friend pulls out to auger to drill in his "best" spots and we are off and running.

 

The size of the fishing rods are almost comical; only about 12 inches long they look as if they were made for a small child, not a full grown man. But in the end they are practical and with small fish, steady winds, and the constant hole hopping, they serve their purpose well. We use mealworms as bait and a little device called a Vexilar to detect fish. It’s almost like a fish finder, detecting with variations in color and size what is below us in the 30+ feet of water; given that it can detect my tiny worm at 25 feet, you can be fairly confident in its accuracy. As fish come in you begin to find yourself caught between the world of feeling for the “bite” and watching a small digital detection screen, somewhere between your grandfather’s fishing trips and an 80’s style video game. While I’m still not sure whether this would technically constitute cheating I see that in this case, where a man is feeding his family, it’s a compromise. Needless to say, it certainly is fun.

Before I can quite get a handle on the operation the oldest of his boys has already snagged four fish and is proudly gloating to his dad who in turns vows to make a comeback (after he is done drilling a few more holes). I meanwhile can see the fish in my little device yet find quickly my “closing” abilities need some work. However, with a few quick tips on pace and rhythm I pull up my first panfish, a crappie (pronounced CROP-IE) to my utter delight. It is small yet beautiful. From the chilled water in this lake and up through 25 inches of ice it has found its way onto my hook and up to my side. But I have barely a moment to enjoy before the fish is swiped up and thrown into a bucket, “35 more to go” he says and I am back to hole hopping.

With the sun warming my face I am down to only a light jacket. As we sit on the lake the sun moves across the lake exemplifying the would be spring sky. I continue to catch fish and while my technique is far from perfected, I find myself enticing more and more fish to bite. Or perhaps, which is more likely the case, it’s simply become later in the afternoon and the fish are raring to go; I prefer the former. But what I realize throughout this process is that the two boys treat this trip as something habitual, almost perfunctory, but no doubt enjoying the experience in their own way. They share stories of the untold numbers of fish reeled in earlier this week and of their trophies caught on the bigger lakes; the younger one of only eight boasting about a 29 inch walleye he caught this past summer. Their love of the outdoors and fishing is almost ingrained in them. I believe I got more joy out of that than actually fishing myself.

With the sun dipping below the tree line we packed up our bags and headed back home, just short of ten fish each and our limits. I would arrive at their house, grab a few cans of generic beer and head downstairs to clean fish. In this moment I was witness to another kind of ritual that was equally engaging and novel to me. The father of these boys and my good friend began to show me how to fillet these fish, his fastidious and programmed movements quickly turning a small fish into a meal. He talked about the weight of his knife, the flex of its blade, and proudly pointed out the two new ones he had bought for his boys, both embossed with their initials.

In this dim cellar below the main floor deer antlers, arrows, hooks, lures, and reloading equipment litter the tables and shelves; an environment that would make any hunter smile. With a few beers, the radio fading in and out, and the warmth from the wood burning outside I felt myself winding down. When all the fish were cleaned and the carcasses removed a few pieces of crumpled up newspaper made quick work of the excess fish mix on the cutting boards. The knife was wiped dry, the lights turned out, and the tedious work complete.

We would sit down to a dinner of venison, sliced thin and cooked over the stove. A few more beers would cement the evening and a Saturday afternoon turned into night was over. I drove home with fish in my truck, meat in my belly, and another adventure to reflect on. I think there will certainly be some more fishing in my future and now the only question is, when do I get to do it again? 

 

 

 

"Magnificent Obsession..." by Tom Davis

While under most circumstances I would describe bird hunting in my own terms, with my own voice, I have found several others over the years who have elicited my own sense of passion; others who through their words and pictures have transported me to the open range and put me to bed with dreams of fall. When I find these authors, these men who capture the culture, I hold onto them and continue to lose myself in their stories.

One such article that brought out the best in what it means to hunt upland birds is called, “Magnificent Obsession: Pursuing prairie chickens may be the purest form of hunting…It’s surely the most introspective” by Tom Davis. Published in a popular sporting magazine, Davis eloquently and cogently wraps you up in the world of grouse, and more specifically, that of the prairie chicken. If I had not even gotten past the cover photo (below) I would have walked away with a smile on my face; it’s perfect, symbolizing rural America at its finest. But alas, there is a great article that follows and the experience is divine. From elaborating on the struggles in the field to reflecting on the current state of grouse across the country, Davis makes us all want to head off to the mid-west and try our hand at these elusory birds.

But enough of me, best to enjoy it for yourself…

"Magnificent Obsession..." - Tom Davis